My Once and Future Duke (The Wagers of Sin #1)(4)

“But Mrs. Upton wouldn’t teach sums if they weren’t beneficial for ladies to know,” Eliza insisted, unaware of Sophie’s inner turmoil. “I’ll have to find some other way to learn . . . although I truly hope I don’t need to learn odds . . .”

Georgiana giggled. “That’s because the odds are very good that you’ll find a handsome and charming husband, Eliza, and he’ll treat you like a duchess, whether you can balance your household accounts or not.”

“I hope so,” said Eliza wistfully. “Since I haven’t got your beauty or Sophie’s cleverness, I can’t risk it.”

Sophie tucked the blankets under her chin as they debated the question. That simple comment, calling her not only clever but by her given name, caused an unexpected warmth inside her. She was all alone in the world now, with Mama and Papa dead, her grandfather an ogre, and her mother’s family a continent away. She vaguely knew she had an uncle or two, and perhaps even cousins somewhere, but none of them were coming to her aid.

She might not have any family worth knowing, but true and honest friends would be a good start. And she had a powerful feeling that she, Eliza, and Georgiana were destined to be great friends.





Chapter 1





1819

London



The Vega Club occupied a curious position in London. Tucked away on a dead--end street not far from St. James Square, it sat precisely midway between the wealth and elegance of Mayfair and the brutal squalor of the Whitechapel rookeries. It made no bones about catering to both extremes; it was said that anyone—-duke or dockworker, lady or lady of the street—-could apply to become a member. There were only two requirements of those fortunate enough to secure the stamped silver token of membership.

Pay your debts. Hold your tongue.

It was rumored that members were required to take an oath pledging not to reveal anything that happened within Vega’s walls. Rumored, because no one could, or would, confirm it. When confronted directly, members would claim not to know anything about it before quickly walking away. But since even the most determined scandalmongers were frustrated in their attempts to learn many details about the gaming club, the pledge of secrecy became part of Vega’s legend, whether or not it was true. And that encouraged the spread of all manner of stories about what did go on.

Jack Lindeville, Duke of Ware, knew all about Vega’s. It was the bane of his life even though he himself never went there. His younger brother, Philip, frequented the place, along with his crowd of friends. They invited him to accompany them from time to time, but Jack always declined. He knew why he was welcome at their tables, and it wasn’t for his charm and wit. Young men on fixed incomes, even generous fixed incomes, were always in search of someone wealthy to play against, and as Philip often reminded him, Ware was one of the richest dukedoms in England.

Jack interpreted that to mean that he looked like a prime mark for Philip’s friends with empty pockets. Unfortunately for them, he wasn’t fool enough to go. One bit of bad luck, and a man’s life could be ruined.

His lip curled at that thought as his carriage turned up St. Martin’s Lane on its way to the Vega Club. Bad luck, Philip claimed, had been the cause of his most recent downfall: the two of clubs, when all he needed to win was any card higher than a three. Philip was sure he had calculated the odds correctly and the dealer had made a mistake, although he dared not say so and risk his membership. But the result was that he had signed a note for almost two thousand pounds, which he could not pay.

Philip was penitent. He apologized for asking such a favor. He promised it would never happen again, even though it had happened several times before. But he also told their mother, who swept into Jack’s study in a storm of indignation and insisted he settle the debt to prevent Philip being humiliated or impoverished.

At first Jack would have none of it. Philip brought it on himself, and if he was man enough to sign a note that size, he was man enough to work out how to honor it. But his mother argued, and then cajoled, and then she began weeping and bitterly accusing him of callous indifference to his family duty. At that, Jack relented. When the duchess made up her mind, there was no reasoning with her.

The carriage rocked to a halt. The footman opened the door and Jack stepped down. He’d pay this debt for Philip, but not without repercussions. His brother had an independent income—-thanks to his mother—-but he also drew an allowance from the Ware estates, which Jack controlled. For seven years he’d safeguarded those estates, and he’d be damned if his hard work would be siphoned off by Philip’s bad luck at the card tables.

Thin--lipped, he strode into the club. A burly fellow in impeccable evening clothing appeared before he’d taken two steps. “Good evening, sir. May I help you?”

“I’m here to see Dashwood,” Jack replied, naming the club’s owner. He drew out one of his cards and offered it.

“Is he expecting you?”

Jack smiled humorlessly. “I daresay he won’t be surprised by my arrival.” Philip was not shy about trading on the Ware name. If Mr. Dashwood were half as canny as his reputation suggested, he’d probably been anticipating Jack’s visit from the moment Philip scrawled his signature on that marker.

The manager gave him an appraising glance. “Perhaps not. Would you care to wait in the dining room?”